"You enjoy the attention, don’t you?" His voice was low, dangerous, as he pinned me against the wall of our bedroom later that night.
I swallowed hard. "Bryant, you’re overreacting."
His jaw clenched. "Am I?"
That’s when I knew—I needed to understand exactly who I had married.
And so, I followed him.
That night, when Bryant left the house, I hid in the backseat of his car. My heart pounded as the vehicle moved, the city lights flashing through the tinted windows.
After nearly an hour, we arrived at a warehouse.
Bryant stepped out, his movements calculated and confident. I waited a few seconds before slipping out, keeping to the shadows.
And then, I saw it.
A man—a reporter.
I recognized him instantly. He had been at the gala earlier, staring at me a little too long.
Now, he was on the ground, bloodied and beaten.
Bryant’s men stood around him, mercilessly landing blow after blow.
My stomach churned.
This was about me.
This man was being tortured because he had dared to look at me.
I couldn’t stay silent.
"Stop!" My voice echoed through the warehouse as I stepped forward. "Bryant, stop this!"
The men froze, their fists mid-air.